


30 Days in the Lives of... Harry and Draco

by Winterwolke



Series: Broken Wings 'Verse [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Healer Draco Malfoy, M/M, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Minor Pansy Parkinson/Blaise Zabini, Veela Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2020-03-02 06:07:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 20,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18805267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterwolke/pseuds/Winterwolke
Summary: 30 days in the lives of Harry and Draco, from special dates to tiny snippets.





	1. Dance

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first chapter of the "30 days" fest from the Drarry FB-group. You can find it here: https://www.facebook.com/groups/325397114524016/permalink/706790576384666/  
> While it surely is intended to spread HP fluff in the world, I will use it as an entry to a longer, much darker verse I am currently writing. Each chapter can be read as a stand-alone, but there will be some small, tiny, barely-there flashes of angst woven into them that will finally introduce you to my 'verse.

The first step is always the hardest, Draco knows. It’s all those what-ifs keeping him from doing it. What if he does it wrong? What if he forgets something? What if he can’t do it at all? What if the others will laugh at him? What if…?

A clammy hand grabs his, strong and sure, but obviously just as nervous as he is. He looks at Harry, their eyes meeting in silent agreement. 

The whole day has been about first steps, about rising upon their innermost doubts, beating insecurities, about showing the world they’re meant to be together. Everyone had been against them. 

Draco remembers the endless fights. Opposite sides in a war that took too much from them, winner or loser, it didn’t matter. Fighting against feelings he didn’t want to admit even to himself, fighting the growing attraction. Fighting to be accepted by the two most important people in Harry’s life, closely followed by fierce confrontations with his family.  
He remembers the many tears spilled on both sides, his own impotent fury that nobody was giving him a chance, not one benefit of doubt. Molly Weasley in desperation that her Harry was seeing a Death Eater, throwing his life away. 

He also remembers the first time they kissed and it was also a moment full of doubts, of what-ifs, before Harry had leaned down, touched his cheek almost hesitantly, his emerald green eyes questioning and Draco had closed the gap, throwing everything overboard. He hadn’t wanted to make the first step, had been afraid he was reading the signs wrong, the surreptitiously glances and barely-there touches.

There have been many first steps, many first times and they mastered them. Still, Draco’s stomach flutters nervously as he nods, sensing Harry needs more confirmation than his weary eyes can give.

As soon as they get up from their chairs all eyes turn to them. The room quiets almost immediately before hushed murmurs erupt like Fiendfyre all around them, but Harry and Draco brave them as they step around the long table, making their way to the huge empty space in the middle of the room.

Harry catches Hermione’s eyes and gives her a short nod. She waves her wand, a slow movement, much like a baton and music plays softly from somewhere. Draco holds his breath and begins to count in his head. At thirteen they have to do the first step, at thirty eight the first twist and at two hundred ten everything will be over.

For a split second Draco sees all of his past mistakes floating before his eyes, paralysing him as his breathe swooshes out of him, leaving him empty, speechless, unable to see past them. Just as he thinks he will pass out, embarrass himself in front of all these people, a slight chuckle dissolves all the dark thoughts and just like that, everything is easy.

He doesn’t need to count the beat in his head, doesn’t need to watch his feet. Everything falls into place.

Harry takes the lead and makes the first step and Draco follows in perfect synch. The room, the people, even the music around him fades into the background. His eyes are locked with Harry’s, emerald glinting bright in the fairy lights. As usual, they don’t need words between them. Draco knows everything Harry says with the loving twinkle, his soft smile, the world around them meaningless in the light of their love. 

Harry swirls him around, his hand sure and strong on Draco’s hip, his other possessively holding Draco’s right.  
His Veela sighs in contentment, the grand gestures of affection pleasing the creature deep inside of him. It’s a secret they haven’t shared with anyone, haven’t felt the need ever since Draco made the first step and confessed his deep-felt love for Harry and revealed they were mates. It’s something so private not even Hermione and Weasel, pardon, Ron, know it. To Draco it’s just another string connecting them, tightening a bond that already withstood war and Death himself.

As they slowly come to an end, Draco becomes aware of his surroundings once more. He sees the bright and colourful bouquets of roses everywhere and people dressed in their best robes. Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister of Magic, smiles at him as Draco executes the last dance-steps, carried by the soft music of the string quartet and Harry’s sure lead. As the music slowly fades away, he watches Molly Weasley dab the tears away with a pristine white handkerchief, sees Hermione do the same. Pansy and Blaise grin like idiots and Draco is fairly sure they mirror his own expression.

He is suddenly bent over, a strong arm supporting his back and then Harry kisses him chastely, the solid press of dry lips against Draco’s own. It’s a promise for tonight, when they will be finally alone, but also for a future together. 

They say that your wedding day is the best day of your life and Draco knows it's true.


	2. Sunset

Harry isn’t a big fan of winter. It’s cold and dark and gloomy. When he was young, he was always freezing because the Dursleys couldn’t have been bothered to buy him a fitting jacket or some sturdy boots. It all changed when he finally got the money, his vaults full of shiny gold, and the first winter after the war he maybe had gone a bit overboard. He still owns three of the five different greatcoats he bought that day and more boots than he cares to count and while he is slightly embarrassed about it, the certainty to have clothes, no matter how harsh the weather, doesn’t allow him to feel bad.

What makes him feel even better is that his husband, filthy rich since his birth, never judges him for it. Of course, Draco snorts when they tidy up the wardrobes, putting away the summer clothes to make room for their winter collection. He always looks at the three coats, still immaculate and slightly out of fashion, but despite all his snark, he never jokes about it. Their school days are long over and ever since it started, ever since they got to know each other so well, he refrains from teasing Harry for his misshapen childhood.

Harry loves this about Draco. Despite all the teasing he still does, all the snark he can’t quell no matter how hard he tries, he knows what boundaries he can cross and what should be left to rest for eternity. 

As Harry stands in front of his wardrobe, he ponders which coat he will wear today. It’s a quirk he won’t ever admit to, but he likes to choose the colour depending on his mood. Draco always tells him he has an atrocious fashion sense, and maybe he has, but Harry learned early how powerful colours could be to the mind. And despite having a husband worthy a supermodel, Draco never even notices that Harry is manipulating his moods with subtlety.

He knows he can cheer Draco up with his ridiculously orange and yellow sweater Dobby sent him for Christmas a few years ago. The bright red pompoms are ridiculous but they can crack a smile faster than any lame joke Harry could make. Or his emerald green vest, combined with the grey dress shirt with the burgundy hem will make Draco randy as fuck, barely able to hold himself back as long as they are in proper company.

This time, it seems more important than ever since Harry is going to witness something special. They have never done this before and it took several years for Draco to allow it. Harry is nervous and he wants to pick just the right thing to wear, something that will speak of support and love and compassion. It’s stupid to want to express those things with clothes, but he is sure Draco would understand.

At long last he decides to wear his plain white greatcoat and matching boots. It feels like the simple choice took forever and he hurriedly leaves their small cottage and Apparates to Wiltshire.

The Manor lays dark and lifeless behind him as he reaches the crest of the hill. The sun already touches the snow-covered trees of the forest below, a play of red, orange, yellow and purple firing up the sky. It’s peaceful, despite the dark history weighing on the land.  
The snow is drenched in colours, but Harry just has eyes for the fading light. He knows it’s almost time, and he’s torn between waiting and just enjoying the quiet winter afternoon. It doesn’t take long for him to get giddy, his left leg bouncing with excitement and nervousness. 

He should see something, shouldn’t he? Is he too late? Too early? Why doesn’t he see something?

A soft melody whispers through the air and stills Harry immediately. The song is beautiful and memories come to his mind: their first kiss, the first time Draco said ‘I love you’, their first day at the cottage, their wedding. The songs is about love, about forever, deep feelings that sometimes can’t be contained, and the pictures change. Harry sees their first time making love on his bed at Grimmauld Place, their first row and the following make-up sex, their passionate wedding night.

Feelings rush through Harry’s veins, a heady mixture that sets his blood on fire with want. He wants to shout his passion into the sky, make the world witness what he can’t put into words.

The song gets louder, more intense and now he sees something - someone - rise from the closed treeline and he is momentarily blinded by the last remains of the sun. The creature is illuminated by a golden halo, majestic and breathtakingly beautiful. Harry longs to touch it, wants to give all his love and compassion to it and never let go.

As it comes closer, Harry can make out its features. The wings catch his eyes and it’s not the dying sun colouring them golden, it’s their very own colour. They are big, bigger than a Hippogriff’s and rich like Harry would imagine an angel.

With a start he realises it is, indeed, an angel and his very own. He has never seen Draco’s Veela but he couldn’t have imagined a better place or a better time. The sunset is the perfect canvas to highlight the beauty of the creature that is his husband. His torso is naked, but the cold doesn’t seem to faze Draco as he draws closer and begins to dance.  
It’s primal, raw, a Veela mating dance, without the finesse of a professional dancer, but even more intoxicating. 

Harry follows every move, every stroke of those golden wings, excited and, if he is honest, extremely turned on. With a chuckle he realises that it’s the desired effect. He can’t wait to get his hands on Draco, to touch those feathers, feel their softness.

It’s hours - or maybe mere seconds - before Draco finally lands in front of him, and Harry goes to him without hesitation. They melt into each other, Harry’s nose buried in Draco’s hair, inhaling the enticing scent that is totally new but still Draco at the same time.

As their lips meet and golden wings close around them like a cocoon of warmth and everlasting love, the sun finally vanishes behind the horizon.


	3. Candlelight Dinner

They don’t have time to do this very often. Harry is going to be the next Head Auror and Robards is keeping him busy every day and more nights than Draco cares for. While the Dark Lord was a prime example for a megalomaniac mad man, he wasn’t the first and certainly won’t be the last. 

They should have at least the weekends to themselves, but Draco’s own work schedule cuts away their precious time together. St. Mungo’s is always hectic and always in need of competent Healers. The fourth floor is busy at all times of the day, treating hexes, curses and spells that have gone wrong. It’s visited by Aurors much too frequently for Draco’s comfort but he is glad to never have met Harry during his shift.

Still, the work is exhausting and Draco is so tired most of the time, that he goes straight to bed without much energy to do more than gulp down something to eat.

Today is a rare occasion. It’s an uneventful week for the both of them. Crime rates are down due to the heat wave that fries Britain for four weeks and counting, and people seem to suffer too much from the sweltering heat to raise their wands. 

Draco sighs and renews his Cooling Charm, then gets back to chopping the onions. It isn’t a surprise he’s taken to cooking, not when potions are his passion since he was old enough to reach the rim of a cauldron. He wishes he could do it more often, just to see the sparkle in Harry’s eyes, the pure and earnest joy at something so mundane like a home-cooked meal.

He carefully mashes the potatoes with milk, butter, grated nutmeg and adds his secret ingredient: cinnamon. Harry always wants to know what it is that makes Draco’s mashed potatoes so special, but he withholds it every time. Not even the meanest torture - Harry tickling him until he can’t breathe - can pry it from his lips.

The chicken is simmering in the pan next to the onions he slowly heats. It should be all ready in about fifteen and he hopes to Merlin Harry will be in time when he gets everything on the table. The caramelised onions only taste good if they’re fresh out of the pan. If they sit too long they lose their hearty taste. 

He is just about to add the powdered sugar when two strong arms close around his chest. Draco flinches - Harry is stealthy as a cat when he wants to - and firmly squeezes the package. The sugar scatters in all directions, painting them both white, mixing with the mashed potatoes but, thank Merlin, doesn’t get near the chicken. Draco looks dumbstruck, his mouth opening and closing like a fish, as laughter booms behind him.

When Harry laughs, he does it with his whole body. He bends at the waist, one hand going to his stomach, the other hand braced on his knee. Between the hearty guffaw he wheezes, small puffs of air that Draco finds equally appalling and endearing. It makes him smile and soon they’re both laughing daftly.

When they finally finish, Draco wipes a tear from the corner of his eye before he swipes his hand over the messed up kitchen, Vanishing the white mess, leaving behind the buggered mashed potatoes and the chicken, now nearly black. Dinner’s ruined and Draco sighs in defeat.

“Don’t worry, babe, I’ll just call that Indian restaurant you like and get some Chicken Korma and Naan for us”, Harry says and disappears into the den.

Draco looks at the table outside. Everything had been ready. Their best plates, their best silver, the napkin Grandma Black hated because they were made by Muggles but that Draco loves because they are the same colour as Harry’s eyes. The candle holder from Tesco, the only thing they possess that’s totally cheap but means a lot to them both.

It could be worse, Draco thinks. He takes two glasses and the bottle of wine, already open and utterly inappropriate for Indian food, and heads for the door.  
Just as he steps outside, he feels a miniscule twinge in the back of his mind. It barely lasts a second and as he sits down, waiting for Harry to join him, it’s already forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you see what I did there?


	4. Pillow Talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry for the delay, but the previous weeks have been hectic and will be for quite some time.

Harry pants with exhaustion when Draco collapses on his chest. Draco purrs like a kitten, little puffs that not only warm Harry’s skin but also his heart. His husband is the equivalent of a pet cat, all contradiction, sharp angles, soft curves and soft fur. He can be ferocious, deadly, but it’s all hidden beneath his tame appearance. 

When they’re out, he’s is immaculate, not one hair out of place, his clothes impeccable. Since they’re together Draco has gained some weight, not much, just enough to smooth out his pointy face. Secretly he likes Draco more like this. Harry loved him when they were fresh out of school and he loves him even more now, years later. 

For all the danger Draco poses to people who are dumb enough to cross him, as soon as they’re in bed, he turns into an almost submissive cuddly type. And Harry doesn’t mean sex, no. He means literal cuddling. 

Which is why Draco presses closer against him, trying to melt into Harry's embrace. They're sweaty and it's too hot to be pressed together like this, but only an emergency could make Harry abandon their bed now. He slowly strokes through the soft, white-blond strands, twirling them around his fingers. 

It's half an hour later when Draco finally stirs from his post-coital snuggle-high and slowly slides down Harry's chest to settle on his side. His long, elegant fingers card through Harry's pelt, soft touches that mean nothing but comfort. He wonders if it's early enough for a second round or if he should catch up on sleep. 

The last week had been exhausting and filled with endless hours of gruesome Auror work. It's a difficult case of human trafficking and the tension that was mounting up all week finally collapsed tonight in a explosion of robes and pants, aggressive kisses and finger-shaped bruises. They both had surely needed it.

Now it's all soft touches and whispered love and maybe Harry wants to stay in this carefree bubble a little longer.   
“Remember last time when we were stressed this much?”

The question is mumbled, much like Draco was already about to succumb to sleep but decided otherwise the last second. His voice is raspy, and Harry smirks. He did that.

“How could I forget?” 

Last time it had been Draco, nearly breaking down under the pressure of eighteen hour work shifts, after the Prophet had released a series of articles describing how teenage wizards and witches liked to spend their time in foreign countries. All of them included some sort of getting high on certain potions ingredients and either flying brooms, playing tag by Apparating through the country or mock dueling. The following three weeks were filled with broken bones, splinched limbs and the tragic deaths of three witches that believed their Levitation Charms were enough to jump from the London Eye and get down like a feather. Not only was St. Mungo's full of injured teenagers (never mind the mass of irresponsible adults), but the Obliviators had to work overtime.   
Draco had been in a fowl mood, never mind an undersexed Veela is a nightmare.

First the air was filled with flying cups, plates and Grandma Weasley’s ugly gnome figurine, then clothes flew everywhere.  
It’s rare for Draco to top outside of his Veela’s heats, but that night, he took Harry again and again and again and in the afterglow Harry finally pulled out the small black ring box and proposed. 

“What are you gonna propose this time?”   
The hoarse voice gives Harry plenty of ideas and he isn’t the only one taking interest. Despite the sated tiredness he felt minutes ago, he is ready for another round of earth shattering sex.   
“Mh, I have some ideas. What do you say we try your magic wand?”  
“Yes!”


	5. Showering Together

Draco is filthy when he finally gets home after twelve hours of sick people. While he is usually working on the fourth floor with long-term spell damage victims, whenever there is an epidemic, he is helping out. Winters are filled with sick children waiting to get their Pepper-Up, summers with irresponsible adults suffering heat strokes. 

Today it’s a failed potions experiment at Diagon Alley that made everyone within a mile sick. It was a tricky case since usually the purple end of a Puking Pastille is enough to conquer almost every form of sickness, but not today. Until someone finally found the cure the whole emergency area was full of vomiting people, the stench a challenge for even the strongest stomach. 

Finally at home, Draco saw Harry’s stag waiting, telling him he would be alone for the rest of the day after an important case had come up. He doesn’t like to be alone, especially not after those demanding days at work, but there isn’t much he can do. Except have a shower to get rid of the hospital stench.

He feels lonely some days. It isn’t like he’s dependent on Harry, Draco is perfectly capable of living his life on his own. He just doesn’t want to. Harry is the balm that soothes his soul - or something equally corny. It’s true, though. 

After the war he had been severely depressed, guilt and shame weighing him down as well as the people. Everyone was always staring at him, judging him for his failures, never for his accomplishments. When he started Healer training at St. Mungo’s patients refused to be treated by him, always reducing him to the ugly Mark on his left arm. 

It was Harry who took away the pain, who supported Draco when everything came tumbling down on him. He never used his mighty name, never fought for Draco in public, but was supportive in every way Draco could imagine.

They weathered many storms together to be were they are now. Which changes nothing of the fact that Draco is alone in the shower wanting nothing more than Harry to be there with him.

The door unexpectedly opens and familiar footsteps announce his husband. Wide grey eyes meet emerald green as Harry pushes his Auror robes off his shoulders. They land on the bunch of Draco’s carelessly tossed away Healer robes, crimson red and lime green, a fitting analogy for their own deep bond.

His gaze never leaves Draco, not when he pulls off his socks and especially not when he steps out of his pants. Draco swallows with effort, his mouth suddenly dry. His body is reacting like they are still eighteen and not thirty one, his hard-on quick and surprisingly persistent. Sex wasn’t on his agenda, but Draco won’t complain.

The water is cut off as Harry steps between him and the shower head to get wet. He reaches for the body wash, his eyes still fixed on Draco, and begins to soap himself up. When his hands reach his cock, Draco has to look. He licks his lips, watching a clever hand slick the hard member up, stroking up and down with deliberate motions. Harry doesn’t want to come yet, he just puts on a show for Draco, who is intrigued and at a loss what to do next. Does he want to watch or does he want to participate.

The matter is settled when Harry puts a hand on his shoulder. It’s just a suggestion, he can back out any time he likes, but Draco loves it when his husband takes charge.  
He gracefully sinks to his knees. The water has washed away the suds, but the skin still tastes slightly lemony, almost overpowering Harry’s natural musk. He sets to work, quick and clever strokes with his tongue, sweet kisses and firm suction and Harry writhes under the onslaught. It doesn’t take long for him to reach his climax and he shudders and moans as he gives Draco everything.

Draco is on edge when he gets up from the wet tiles. Harry barely has to touch him before he pants and comes.

Minutes later, when they finally step out of the shower, Draco finds his voice.  
“What are you doing here? Your Patronus said you’d be gone the whole evening.”

“I had a feeling you would need me today. Ron is covering my shift since ‘Mione and the kids are in Cardiff with Ginny. For all he complains about her clinginess, he is so easily lost without her. He’s bored out of his mind and couldn’t agree faster when I asked him.” Harry laughs.  
“It was bad today, wasn’t it? I heard about Diagon Alley.”

“You can’t imagine half of it. I’ve never been so glad to leave the hospital behind.”

“So, what do you want to do this evening? I don’t have to be in before ten o’clock tomorrow morning.” 

“Me neither. We could eat and see what happens next? I was thinking about a nice Filet Mignon, some wine and a foot massage?”

“Sounds like a good plan to me,” Harry agrees enthusiastically and rushes out of the bathroom to get dressed.

Draco is about to follow when a short but sharp twinge flashes through his skull. It's over in seconds, gives him the feeling of an impending headache that will last for hours. It never actually happens, but Draco is sick of the strange pressure in his skull, never really hurting but also never going away anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the non-existent smut, but if I would get started, you'd be easily reading 7k, which are a bit much for this ;)


	6. Love Note

_“Harry, last night was amazing. You are the best husband one could wish for. I will be out the whole day; I have left my new schedule on the fridge. Please do the laundry while I’m gone.  
Draco”_

Harry smiles when he finds the note on the pillow next to his. The other side of the bed is cold, but his heart is warm and full of emotions.

After getting ready to work and doing the laundry just like Draco asked, he sets to leave his own note.

_“My lovely dragon, only your tender care gives me the potential to do my best. Know that I will wait for you when you get back, pining for your loving touch. Forever yours, Harry.”_

He can see the annoyed eye roll, hear the pained sigh. His husband, for all that he is a romantic sap and a cuddle monster, hates corny professions of love - or nicknames. ‘Babe’ is the only one Harry can get away with, at least sometimes. Anything else Draco will protest faster than Harry can finish saying them. He remembers an epic argument at the end of their second year as a couple, when he wouldn’t stop calling Draco ‘Honey’. 

Sure enough, when he wakes up a the next morning, the bed is cold again, but another note is waiting for him.

_“Harry, please stop embarrassing us both. You know how I feel about this display of affection. Have a nice day, Draco.”_

Harry smirks, does another round of laundry and heads to the kitchen. He has an appetite for some fried eggs and enough time to satisfy his urges. A self-inking quill is already waiting next to a fresh piece of parchment.

_“My dearest and bravest dragon. It saddens me to have caused you discomfiture. Rest assured I have thoroughly flagellated myself to atone for my sins. How can I be worthy of your forgiveness? Know that my love for you still burns with the intensity of a thousand suns. My heart is waiting for the moment we will meet again. With eternal love and devotion, your husband Harry.”_

While he needs a good twenty minutes and two different dictionaries, Harry is proud of the result. He imagines Draco reading the note, fuming with anger but secretly ridiculously pleased Harry would do this for him. He is almost sorry he can’t be here when Draco finds the parchment.

It’s the third day of waking up without Draco and his heart flutters pleasantly when he spots the new message from Draco. 

_“Potter, please stop! Please stop making a fool out of yourself. I love you, alright? More than words can describe. Forever and probably longer than that. But you are no poet and we certainly don’t live a hundred years ago. Go to work, have a nice day and think of me. That’s all I want from you. No more notes! D.”_

Harry smirks. Seems like he won this round.


	7. Gifts

When they started dating, Draco thought he needed to buy Harry’s affection. He isn’t proud of it and still cringes in embarrassment when he remembers some of the things he spent his money on. It had taken a stern lecture from Hermione to make him stop, and ever since, she is his confidant whenever he wants to give Harry something important.

They exchange small gifts quite regularly, sometimes just a single flower or the chocolate Harry likes so much (the cheap one from Tesco) or Draco’s favourite food. 

Sometimes they are bigger, like the black dragon hide boots Draco treasures with an insane amount of intensity. He vividly remembers the row they had about wearing boots in the house. Okay, maybe he’d been a bit obsessed with them.

Still, it’s the thoughtful things that get Draco every time. Like the snitch. During one of the many games in the orchard behind the Burrow, Draco finally managed the unthinkable - he caught the snitch before Harry could. He wanted to keep this memento but after the deafening cheers had died down it was nowhere to be found. Draco only saw it again at his wedding, when Harry put the ring on his finger. While it was the simple platinum band they agreed on, Draco's had rich golden ornaments and a small stone, equally golden. It was the snitch, worked into the metal in an intricate pattern that ultimately symbolised the wings. It was the inscription on the inside, however, that got to Draco “You caught my heart first”.

Needless to say that, while he wouldn't embarrass himself in front of all people by crying his eyes out, Draco soon excused himself from the mass of well wishers to quietly break down in a bathroom. Of course, Harry found him and that had been even more embarrassing than a crying fit in front of everyone.

Harry's birthday is about a week away and Draco is slightly panicked. He’s been thinking about the gift for a very long time and has driven himself into a tie between smug satisfaction that his gift will be the best Harry will ever get, and paralysing terror that it will be a huge mistake. This isn't helped by the fact that Hermione is equally unsure and delighted by the idea. 

It was hard to acquire everything, especially since Draco had to deal with certain Muggles. It's ridiculous, the amount of force he had to use to get something the Muggles didn't even want anymore, but he made the mistake to tell them it was for Harry. Draco isn't proud of himself, but his old prejudices surfaced once again while he had to deal with Harry's pig-headed relatives. More than once he caught himself muttering generic crap against the non-magical population. Crap his father forced into his mind, when he was still trying to impress a man that couldn’t possibly be impressed. 

In hindsight Draco is glad that Harry had been away in Poland on some Auror conference and hadn’t noticed Draco’s relapse in old habits. But those Muggles… he still shudders in disgust, thinking about them. He has never seen more hatred, never heard more vile insults outside the war that weren’t directed at himself. Hermione and him had only been able to obtain what they needed with a mix of force and well-placed blackmail, and they both agreed to never mention to a living soul what length they went.

Gladly, the mission is done now and all that is left to do is wait for Harry’s birthday.  
Draco pulls out the small box and places it on the kitchen table. His husband is on a lookout and will likely be away for the next two days. The Healer in Draco worries about his heavy workload, but Harry wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s always 120% with him.

The content of the box is quite unspectacular. Some Muggle-photographs, a child’s ring with a big fake ruby, a mothy blanket, formerly a crass violet but now turned a soft lilac. An equally old stuffed lion and, curiously, a stuffed snake, entwined with the lion. 

Draco pets the snake’s head, finds the worn fabric surprisingly soft. One eye is missing, the other one replaced with a black button. The stitches are sloppy, obviously the work of a child, but it’s charming and Draco imagines a little girl with auburn hair, her emerald green eyes fixed on the needle. At the tail is a crooked “L” embroidered. Did Lily ever learn how to sew properly? Did it matter? Probably not. Lily Potter’s qualities, no matter what they would have been, can be summarised by a simple phrase: She saved Harry. 

He knows how much Harry longs for a connection to his parents. Except for an album full of pictures that Hagrid collected more than a couple of decades ago, there is nothing he owns of them, nothing to remember them by. Until Hermione and Draco went out to collect the hopefully best birthday present ever.

It’s his insecurity that tells him he’s making a big mistake, that Harry would never appreciate a gift like this. The personal belongings of his parents will only be hurtful, never something he’ll be glad about. It’s causing Draco a headache, pondering about these things, but he has done it all now and he won’t back out. He isn’t a coward anymore.

He puts everything back into the box and stashes it under the kitchen sink - a place Harry will likely never see. Draco is pleased with himself and Hermione. They did the best they could and hopefully it will be a gift Harry loves.


	8. Sex Toy

Harry can't help the bright grin on his face. It’s absolutely ridiculous and the more he thinks about it, the funnier it gets: His big, bad Veela-husband, the incarnation of sex and passion, turns scarlet the second they enter the sex shop.

Calliope is waiting for them; they have a private session since neither of them wants anything of this in the Prophet. They don’t do this very often. Sometimes Harry just orders things by owl, but today they’re looking for something special.

Calliope’s shop is one of a kind. It’s located in a back alley of Diagon and has a huge variety of products, both Muggle and wizard alike. There are normal spreader bars or those that can be manipulated with a simple spell. Crimson feather ticklers are in the same shelf as Quick-Tickling Quills, much like the Quick-Quotes Quills. They look for the best places to stimulate all on their own, while you still have both hands free to do something else. Their magic, however, fades quick enough, a lesson Harry and Draco learned after a weekend of fun that ended in an unforgettable laughing fit when the quill wouldn’t stop and had to be destroyed. 

There’s more. Dildos and plugs, gags and bondage rope, but also sensual candles, massage oil and underwear, potions for all kinds of purpose, condoms and other contraceptives. Calliope has it all and if she doesn’t, she knows where to get it. It’s their chosen shop since the beginning of their relationship, when they experimented with many different kinks. It all died down over the years, but Harry and Draco like to revisit some of them from time to time.

Draco is still blushing like a virgin, his gaze flitters from shelf to shelf without looking at them too long. It’s endearing how prim he is, despite their passionate relationship and his work as a Healer. He barely is able to talk about it without an embarrassed grimace, and sighs dramatically whenever Harry gets around to dirty talk. He still explodes every time into tiny pieces and Harry loves to put him back together afterwards.

He goes over to Calliope, greeting her and exchanging pleasantries. His gaze never leaves Draco, noticing his every move and, more importantly, waiting and watching what will catch his husband’s attention. He’s always subtle, only hidden glances and inconspicuously coming back to the same shelf over and over again. 

It’s the one with whips and crops, which is quite interesting to Harry. It’s a kink they explored very early into their relationship, but decided that it wasn’t right for them. Well, Harry has to admit, he liked the way Draco’s pale skin would turn a soft pink, the noises he made when his hand met his arse. It was Draco who didn’t want to pursue it further. Seems like he wants to try again.

“I’d recommend this one, upper right corner. The grip is firm and has an additional Sticking Charm, to prevent it from slipping, the leather is Abraxan. This one doesn’t have any extras, it’s suited for beginners. If you’re both comfortable, you can upgrade to a more advanced model. Those are similar to the Quick-Tickling Quill, finding the best - or worst - places to give the maximum stimulation and react to individual safe words,” Calliope says, her expression knowing. She’s seen Draco's ritual often enough, stalking the premise until he circles in on the thing he wants.

They talk Quidditch for some minutes. The Harpies are from another world this season, slaughtering the other teams effortlessly. Ginny on the trainer bench seems to be the best thing that could happen to them and only Merlin knows what will happen next season, when they are all well-practiced.

It takes another ten minutes before Draco stops in front of the shelf, finally admitting to his interest. His face is flushed, but it’s different now. It’s lust, plain and simple and Harry feels himself harden at the sight.

He winks at Calliope. “Seems like we found something.”


	9. Lunch Date

St. Mungo’s is busy today. Draco has been on his feet since four in the morning, replacing Healer Jackson, whose wife currently delivers their first child. The fourth floor is extraordinary uneventful, but the emergency room is full of sick children and the victims of a severe Quidditch accident. It’s a dangerous sport and despite Draco’s love for it, he sniffs in disdain whenever he treats an injury caused by a wayward bludger or the fall off a broom. 

His stomach grumbles with emptiness. He isn’t fond of breakfast, of mornings in general, and today started way too early with the unexpected floo call at an ungodly hour. His head aches, likely the lack of sleep and food, but there is no time to sit down for something so mundane. 

The piercing cry of a baby sends a jolt of fresh pain through his skull. The mother desperately tries to shush it, but the wailing only gets louder. Draco exchanges looks with Healer Neill and collects the file from Mediwitch Goldblum. The mother eyes him warily, obviously recognising who he is. 

It happened often when he was fresh out of his apprenticeship: people refusing to be treated by him because he was Draco Malfoy, son of a war criminal and Death Eater himself. It’s why he was transferred to the fourth floor. People in a coma didn’t complain about who treated them. The families, of course, were another matter, but a formidable success, finally waking up a war victim of a prolonged Imperius curse, helped him get through some of those thick skulls.

He is appreciated by his colleagues, has published a number of scientific articles that granted him the respect of other Healers around the world and is frequently consulted about dark curses. He helped countless patients, but still some refuse. It hurts more than Draco likes to admit, but there’s nothing he can do about it.

He watches helplessly when the mother sneers at him, pulling her baby closer to her chest as if to protect it. His steps falter and he briefly wonders if he should argue with her. Draco knows it’s futile. Regardless what he says, it won’t make her change her mind.

He turns, again fixating Healer Neill, nodding at the man when he hands the file over. Mediwitch Goldblum waves frantically at him, beckoning to get over there.  
Her blue eyes twinkle with mischief as she tells him that someone is waiting for his consultation at examination room 4.

Room 4 is the smallest one, more of a broom closet than anything else. It’s so small it doesn’t even have a charmed window. Except for some cupboards and a cot it’s empty.

When Draco opens the door, he wonders if he mixed up the doors. Instead of hospital dreariness, he steps onto a sunlit clearing. A small stream gurgles in the distance, accompanied by a happy, chirpy song of two starlings, huddled together in a tree nearby. Amidst the flood of wild flowers stands Harry, a wicker basket in one hand, his stiff Auror robes covering the grass in a makeshift picnic blanket. Magic permeates the air, a sweet and enticing smell that touches something inside him.

“You’re such a sap, Potter, it’s disgusting!” Draco smiles to take away the bite. He barely admits it out loud, but he adores Harry’s romantic tendencies. They make him feel wanted, loved, desired and many other things, a heady cocktail of emotions. He chirrups, an unintentional sound that comes from deep inside him, from the creature that shares his blood.

“I know it’s not the same, but I charmed the room after the meadow we went for your initiation. Can you feel it?” And Draco can. The magic settles round him, soothes his aching head and awakens the Veela.

The door falls closed behind them, shutting out the stress of the hospital for a few, precious minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do the staff names ring a bell? *roars like a T-Rex*


	10. Movie Night

Harry cards his hands through Draco’s hair, slow and soft as not to wake him. They’re watching Star Wars - Draco’s choice, because he is fascinated with the concept of traveling through space. Despite his obvious interest it took all of thirty minutes before his eyes closed and the soft, regular puffs of breath tell Harry that his husband is asleep.

He pulls the quilt higher, wrapping it around them like a cocoon and sighs in contentment. He tries to keep his eyes open, but they won’t obey him.

While Luke Skywalker destroys the Death Star, Harry and Draco are fast asleep, dreaming of each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was like "I want to do a reaaaally short one, because sometimes everything is said and done in a few words" and well, I think it fit perfectly.


	11. Cooking Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My fiance changed the title to "Cocking Together" and was somewhat disappointed I wouldn't keep it. *smh* He's also the one who complains if I have too much smut in my work because he has to read it all...
> 
> Anyway, I had the feeling it was all too cheery and relationships aren't like that. So I felt I needed to write something more realistic ("The more I read, the more I think you are processing our relationship," my fiance says. What a surprise!).

The crash of the frying pan hitting the tiled floor is deafening to Draco’s delicate ears and makes him flinch violently, his hand hitting the basket with the cherry tomatoes, sending it over the counter.

Draco turns just in time to see Harry step forward, oblivious to the tomatoes rolling around, crushing one with a squishy sound, seeds, juice and pulp splattering everywhere. He looks confused, his eyes clearly asking why there are tomatoes on the floor, but it doesn’t help the mess that slowly conquers the formerly pristine kitchen.

Each of them can cook and they’re both doing fine on their own. But every time they are cooking together, it ends in a bloody mess. Draco pinches his nose, slowly massaging his painfully pulsing eyes with his thumb and forefinger. It’s one of those days, when the light thrashes spikes of agony through his skull and every sound sends violent vibrations in his brain. 

It's such a normal thing to do, cooking together. Other couples do it and they are doing fine. But for them it's one of those things that doesn't work, no matter how hard they try. It's not the only one: buying furniture is another occasion when they will be more likely at each other's throats than have a civilised conversation. Draco remembers that one time they tried to buy curtains, which ended with them not talking for days.

Harry vanishes the crushed tomato, and levitates the others, all with the wave of a hand. He's become pretty good at wandless magic, Draco notices as a surge of lust shudders through him. It shouldn't be so hot, but it is. 

"Maybe one of us should sit down. We're no good togethers. A bit bold to assume this time it would work." There's no accusation in Harry's words. They're way past such petty things like your fault and my fault. Sometimes it's better to admit you can't do everything together. 

Draco nods in agreement. "I'm going to take a potion for my headache and lie down a bit. Alright?"

"That bad?" Harry asks. The worried tone in his voice makes Draco feel loved and cared for.

Even if they have their problems sometimes, he can always count on Harry to support him and take the pain away.


	12. What I Love About You

Ron waffles on and on about something or other, but Harry barely listens. They are mirroring each other: Hermione lies asleep in Ron’s lap, while Draco snuggles shamelessly into Harry’s belly. They fell asleep at about the same time, five minutes into the evening, and didn’t even finish their tumblers of Ogden’s finest, leaving Ron and Harry to their own devices.

Harry grunts at the appropriate places, nods sometimes or smiles when he thinks Ron needs some assurance, but he is barely listening, lost in his own thoughts. It’s so homely, sitting in the den of their cottage, his husband sleeping, his best friends around, after a home-cooked dinner, and a Firewhisky in his hand.

It hadn’t always been like this. This casual acceptance of their living arrangements, of his relationship, of Draco’s creature.

He remembers that day in their eight year, a stormy November morning. He walked the halls, still reeling under the PTSD from the war, feeling deeply wounded inside. Nobody seemed to understand him, seemed to acknowledge that fighting a madman since he was eleven, and dying in the end, even if he came back, had a lasting effect on one’s psyche. He tried to get better, even saw a Mind Healer regularly (they all did), but it wasn’t so easy, wasn’t over and done within weeks.

So Harry walked the halls, trying to find something to soothe his wounded mind - or at least distract him for a few hours. That day it happened in the form of suppressed sobs, coming from an empty classroom to his left.

People said he got more reckless after everything had ended, but Harry liked to think of himself as more trusting, which was why he opened the door without precaution. Nothing at Hogwarts could hurt him now.

His sight was immediately caught by Draco Malfoy, huddled under a desk, crying. It was the most pathetic display he had ever seen and piqued his interest all the same.

It had been one of the most interesting if not saddest days of his life and it was the beginning of their relationship. It was soon after that Harry had to justify himself and his blossoming relationship with Draco for the first time.

Obviously Hermione and Ron weren’t so sure if it was right to have any contact with Malfoy. They constantly questioned their connection and it took almost two years to finally make them see that, yes, he and Draco were meant for each other.

It wasn’t the only fight. Harry remembers vividly every single intervention.   
Ginny begging him not to make a mistake, not to rush into this scam of a relationship since Draco only wanted to use him. 

George showing off the crater of his ear, waving around painful memories of Fred to guilt him into breaking up. Harry is still furious with him, despite many apologies and years behind them.

Mrs Weasley demanding of Draco to leave the Burrow and never come back ended in harsh sobs and ugly tears when Harry left with him.

And then there were Pansy and Blaise, storming Grimmauld Place in the middle of the night, nearly waking Draco after a horrible day at the hospital. He had just lost his first patient and was devastated. It took Harry several hours to calm him down enough to sleep. 

They hissed at him angrily, accusing him of taking advantage of Draco, who couldn’t defend himself in a world that hated him. Who had no other choice but to stay with the Saviour, who only got his job because of Harry’s name and would lose it as soon as he dared to leave. It was all nonsense, of course, but even Pansy and Blaise seemed convinced. What did it say about them all, when even Draco’s closest friends didn’t believe in them.

Everyone seemed to have been against them, right from the start. Ron, Hermione, the Weasleys. Harry was tired of explaining to everyone why he loved Draco, why he was the one and would forever be.

It was then, right in the middle of a heated argument, when they all heard Draco cry out. It was a piercing scream, echoing through the empty halls, reaching them in the sitting room. They all bolted upstairs, Harry always two steps ahead, to find Draco in utter distress, shaken by nightmares, crying.

Harry didn’t hesitate and wrapped his arms around him, caressing the soft, blond locks, murmuring soothing words. 

“I’m so sorry”, Draco whispered over and over again, broken by pitiful sobs.

“I know, Babe, I know you’re sorry. It wasn’t your fault.” 

They exchanged the same words over and over again before Draco calmed down enough to finally fall asleep again.  
With stiff knees Harry stood up, just then realising Pansy and Blaise had been there the whole time, silently watching their interactions. They both wore a soft smile and Harry knew it was another fight he had won. They never doubted his relationship with Draco ever again.

In the end, everybody comes around, even if it takes some years and, for some, is still taking time.

Ron and Hermione are long gone when Draco yawns and stretches his arms, the picture of a graceful if lazy cat. They are still on the sofa in the sitting room; Harry hasn’t dared to move, content with watching his husband’s slumber.

“Why are you smiling?” Draco mumbles, sleep still heavily evident.

“Nothing important. I just thought about all the times I told people what I love about you.”

“Tell me too,” Draco demands and Harry loves to comply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt really gave me trouble and it took the better part of a week to know what I wanted to write...


	13. Visiting Family

It's a cold Walpurgis Night. Draco pulls his cloak tighter around himself, but the shivers don't subside. He feels ill, part of it the headache that hasn't let go since the early hours of the morning, the other part the sick anticipation of today. He always comes here alone.

The Manor is dead, has been abandoned for years. Draco remembers the times when there were soirees, pompous balls and the occasional hunting parties. When the high society of the wizarding world would twist themselves into new and interesting shapes to get an invitation. Back when the Malfoy name meant something. 

It's not the prestige Draco wants back, he is glad the Malfoy line will find its end with him. But he misses the bright smiles on his parents' faces, the high spirit. They never were real parents, having the House Elves raising him, but in those days he had felt near to them. Before it all turned to hell, before the Dark Lord, Draco had felt loved and treasured.

It's long gone now.

He looks around the overgrown path, remembering the peacocks showing off their beautiful plumage. He remembers the bright flowers that were his mother's pride, the ethereal white horses on the paddock near the woods.

Walpurgis Night paints it all in shadows, only allowing the ghosts to linger. Instead of laughter, the Manor is now a place of tears and crippling sadness. Everyone is dead and long forgotten and the pain squeezes Draco's chest painfully.

An angel guards the entrance of the graveyard. Despite their believe in superiority over the Muggles, the Malfoys are laid to rest under the watchful eyes of their symbols and Gods. Most of the headstones are withered, illegible with age and decay. So many generations of Malfoys rotting away, but Draco can’t offer them any consolation. He doesn’t care about those things anymore.

The path to his mother’s grave is still recognisable. Draco carelessly stomps on the weeds claiming the bare gravel. Winter will kill them all and he won’t be back before Christmas - why should he bother?

The white marble has darkened with the years, but at least the inscription is still clearly visible. ‘Narcissa Malfoy, beloved mother of Draco’ is all it says. Dates are not important. Her sacrifice is. 

“Hello Mother”, he greets her, his hands buried in his cloak. He feels guilty for neglecting her for so long, but he can’t stand to be here. The Manor weighs heavily on his shoulders, guilt and shame mixed with the pain of his memories. Wherever his mother is, Draco hopes she can forgive him.

“I know it’s been a long time and I’m sorry I didn’t bring Harry with me. I know you deserve to meet him, but I’m not ready. He’s too precious to wallow with us in the dark.”

With a flick he conjures a stool and sits down. It’s going to take some time.


	14. Picnic

The Annual Weasley Picnic is probably the most stressful day of the year - and definitely the best. Harry loves the manic anticipation of his adopted family. 

The plans for the next Picnic start about twelve seconds after the last pie is consumed. The children bustle around while the adults slowly drift off into food coma, when somebody - usually Molly - will bring up an idea what to change next time. It can be anything: place, time, activities, food. 

Once they had an amazing Picnic in the middle of the night, while the Leonids showered them with wishes. Harry rarely experienced such a beautiful night. The downside, however, was soon clear. Every parent complained about hyperactive kids. Since they were awake at night, their sleeping schedules were completely off and according to Fleur and Hermione it took the better of two weeks to get back to normal.

Despite all the extravaganzas that happened over the years, Harry likes the simple ones. He is the happiest when they all meet at the Burrow and enjoy Molly’s home-cooked meat pies and the best treacle tart on Earth.

This year is more calm and laid-back than the years before. The children are all grown up now, and with Rose and Roxanne still at the beginning of their pregnancies it will be some time before the flurry of crying babies and soiled nappies will start again. 

They’re both propped up in fancy garden chairs, courtesy of Draco, who insisted on making them as comfortable as possible. His husband is the biggest mother hen Harry knows, which says a lot, since Molly is serious competition to him, but, being a Healer, Draco knows all the horrible things that can possibly happen. Not that they will or ever did. It’s just extreme precaution that Draco can’t seem to let go. 

There is a story there, but, even after countless years of being married, Harry and Draco have secrets. Nothing big or life-changing, they have a very open relationship, but small things. Like the reason Harry still carries Dumbledore’s Snitch around or Draco won’t tell him where he vanishes to every 2nd May from noon to six in the evening. There are couples that share everything, but they never felt the need.

Smiling to himself Harry watches his family. Draco is still mothering the girls and won’t be approachable until he runs out of things to do, so Harry roams the large garden behind the house. He delights in the few minutes he has to himself - alone but not abandoned.

He can still feel the touch of his family, has only to look around to see traces of everyone he holds dear in his life.  
There is the tree house George and Ron built for Rose and Hugo and that will soon be used by the next generation of Weasley kids.

There is the tree he and Ginny planted. They all had drawn lots with different “chores” which lead to a furious weekend of renovation works at the Burrow to surprise Arthur and Molly for their 25th wedding anniversary. Ron and Bill had to reroof the Burrow while Hermione and Fleur replastered the outer walls. Draco and George had lucked out and were responsible for the new coat of paint inside while Charlie and Angelina tidied the attic and made a new home for the family ghoul. Finally it was Harry and Ginny’s task to clean up the garden and add a few plants. Hence the tree that has grown magnificently ever since.

“Harry.”

Draco suddenly appears at his side and Harry’s voluntary solitude ends in the best possible way: with a kiss and the promise of more as soon as they are home.

Together they make their way over to the tables, which dangerously bow under the weight of pans and pots, plates and glasses.

It looks delicious, just like every other year, and Harry’s heart aches with bittersweet familiarity.  
There are potatoes and roast beef, pumpkin juice and pie, carottes râpées, small quiches, madeleines and tarte tatins, treacle tart, custard-filled pastries and other delicious things Harry can’t be bothered to name. With a family as big as theirs, there are influences from all over the world and it reflects on their meals. On the far side is something Romanian. Harry can’t remember the name but he knows Draco will gorge himself with it.

This year, they are very basic. While the food is on tables, everyone is seated on blankets in the grass, holding onto their plates or simply enjoying the sun.

With a sigh he sits down as well, propped up against a small tree trunk. It’s his favourite place in the world and Harry wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have a concrete timeline set for this. It's more of a writing exercise to me, to get a feeling for the characters and to write something that is short but to the point. That said, I imagine this piece happens way in the future, but I think it's vague enough to leave it to the reader's imagination.
> 
> The timeframe that is important is the developement of Draco's headaches (I hope you noticed by now and aren't surprised). It will lead to a conclusion and give us the opening for the much longer, much darker 'verse I am planning.


	15. Walking Together

Draco is nervous. It’s been a long time since he allowed Harry to see this special side of him, but over the last few months the creature inside him got restless, and so did Draco.

The headaches get worse with every passing month, so bad he sometimes can barely keep his eyes open. On those days, light, no matter how subdued, sends piercing spikes through his brain and makes him sick. He refuses to give into the pain, however; he endured much worse during the war.

It was almost by chance that Draco found out that changing to his more primal side soothes the pain for a few days. It also makes him more needy and clingy afterwards, which is why he doesn’t let it out as much as he needs. He only gives into the urge when the pain becomes unbearable, like today, when he woke up with a fierce pounding in his skull. He knows he should see a Healer, headaches this severe and often aren’t common or healthy. But Healers are the worst patients and it’s not like his colleagues would know what is wrong with him.

He arrives late at the Manor, but there is still a bit of light, painting the sky an intriguing orange and pink, and Draco takes a moment to appreciate nature. He knows that Veelas supposedly are the most alluring things in existence, but he could never see himself as this ethereal beauty. He knows his faults and errors better than anyone and it marrs this perfect picture. Looks can be deceiving, he’s learned that the hard way, and Draco never made that particular mistake again. 

A pop announces Harry’s arrival. They agreed to meet here, where nobody can watch. It’s a well kept secret between just the two of them. The air is heavy with anticipation. For Draco it’s always strange to give up the control over his body, to let the creature out. They are two different persons, even if they share the same body. 

Carelessly Draco lets his robes fall from his shoulders, followed by his shirt. They pool to his feet and he cringes inwardly, but he isn’t the one responsible; the Veela can’t get rid of the clothes fast enough. It’s a bit embarrassing how eager it is to finally be let out, but Draco can sympathise. He’d been a prisoner long enough to have experienced the cravings of freedom, no matter how short the time was.

A rustle disturbs the quiet evening and his wings unfold. Harry stares at him in awe, like he sees them for the first time. It’s cute and a bit embarrassing, the way his eyes sparkle. The Veela basks in the awestruck attention and spreads his wings even wider, showing off perfect white feathers flecked with the last remnants of light. 

He takes Harry’s hand, restless now that his nature is revealed, and takes them down the path to the paddock near the woods. When he was young, his mother bred Abraxans and Draco watched them running around, strong and free and beautiful.

It’s the perfect place for them to take a stroll, enough space to not disturb the wings, but with the beauty of Wiltshire and the first stars as company. Harry hums in contentment, his thumb slowly caressing Draco’s. They don’t need much words in moments like this.

Draco feels the stress of the day and his fierce headache slip away as the moon comes up.


	16. Recreate First Date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It isn't actually my fault it took so long to update. My fiance pestered me every day if I have something new for him to correct (he does a quick grammer/spelling check) and I always told him that I hadn't anything finished. So when the day came and I actually had the chapter, I told him right away, but he didn't have time to read it. And the next day I told him again, but still he had no time. And then again and again and again and now we're here.
> 
> As a small consolation I will be posting 4 chapters, so I hope your forgive me and/or direct your anger and resentment at the fiance.
> 
> (Also I needed to change the POV so we can end on Draco in Ch. 30 and make the connection to the beginning of the verse.)

Draco is nervous, a state he finds himself in quite often. Anxiety is his trusted companion since the war, and sometimes it peaks so high that his hands shake and his breath comes in short, painful puffs. Fortunately, today it isn’t so bad.

It’s their anniversary - the day of their first date, not the wedding - and he’s driving himself crazy for some time now. This year it’s his turn to plan something and he is at a loss what to do.

It can’t be too expensive, Harry is very adamant about such things. But it mustn’t be cheap either, since what’s left of the Malfoy pride refuses to have an anniversary with cheap Tesco wine and chocolate. 

It can’t be something as simple as going out for dinner. They do that often enough that it wouldn’t be special, and the restaurants they usually don’t visit are too expensive and Harry would never agree to that. Or enjoy eating there, for that matter. Despite Draco’s best efforts, his husband never liked the high society the Malfoy name can still give them access to, never liked the stiff and impersonal atmosphere of Michelin Guide restaurants.

It isn’t the right time of the year for a prolonged walk on the beach or visiting the zoo. Draco grows more desperate with every passing day and the headaches don’t help at all. It’s hard to think with the stress of work and the constant pain in his skull.

It makes Draco wish for another time, back when everything was fresh and exciting between them. Not that their relationship isn’t exciting now, but it was quite different back then. Every day had held a new discovery of themselves, now facets of Harry and things Draco hadn’t known about himself before he entered a relationship with somebody who really belonged to him. 

There were so many first times, and not the obvious ones. Sure, their first kiss was magnificent, and the first time they had sex - there aren’t words to describe that.  
But Draco remembers the day he found out Harry had a disgusting addiction to cinnamon in his coffee and the awkwardness that ensued after the “confession”. Or that one time Draco was so deep in thought that he unexpectedly meowed, and Harry replied, equally confused and intrigued. 

Something is itching in the back of his mind, and it isn’t a headache, which is new and refreshing these days. It still bugs him for several days, before a tiny and innocent fleece blanket finally breaks the stubborn bubble of cluelessness. 

Draco remembers their first date - not the fancy restaurant they both hated or the paparazzi following them, demanding to know what the Saviour was doing with a disgusting Death Eater, but their chance meeting at Battersea Park in the wee hours of morning. 

Draco had been up all night, wondering if it really was going anywhere, pressured by his guilt and the headline of tomorrow’s Prophet, which was surely going to be devastating for the both of them.  
It had been a complete surprise to see Harry on a bench overlooking Ladies Pond. They had sat there, watching the night making way for a spectacular sunrise, cuddling close under a conjured fleece blanket, not talking but enjoying it nevertheless.

It’s close to winter, almost too cold to visit Battersea Park again, but Draco’s Warming Charms are strong and they acquired more blankets over the years. He packs a basket with some morsels - the wine and chocolate from Tesco actually make an appearance - and off they go.

They haven’t been to the park since they met there all those years ago, but Draco finds the way easily.

The night is cold, but the stars shine bright above Ladies Pond and their bench is unoccupied when they get there. All the time Draco spent racking his brain what to do pays off when he sees Harry’s eyes light up in recognition. They settle under the blankets, enjoying a quiet night, just the two of them, and when the sun comes up, they share a single perfect kiss.


	17. Hugs

The day couldn’t have been more horrible, more devastating, and it still isn’t over. Harry is grimy and sweaty, the evidence of today’s carnage splattered on his robes, but the crimson fabric hides most of the blood. Just as well, because the children are traumatised enough and don’t need to see more of that horrorshow that is just another Tuesday at the office.

Milo is clinging to Harry’s neck, refusing to let go, and he hasn’t felt his left hand for some minutes now, as Mila has it in a powerful grip. They are just two of five children they rescued from a cult of necromancers, willing to sacrifice them on the upcoming Solstice ĺnight.

It’s horrible, what those kids had to endure during their captivity, especially the girls, and an army of Mind Healers won’t ever make it alright, but at least they stopped the madmen before anything more serious happened. It’s a small consolation, but in Harry’s book staying alive is still a better option. 

It will probably take months to clean up the mess the necromancers left behind. They will spend hundreds of hours bagging evidence, cataloguing it and filling files until Harry’s hand will beg him to just cut it off. On those days, he isn’t sure why he desperately wanted to be an Auror.

When they enter the Ministry, they are swarmed by reporters. The children cling even more to him, terrified by all the ruckus. Of course the disappearance of five children in five days caught everyone's attention, but now that they're all safe, reporters are the last thing anybody needs.

A voice bellows through the Atrium and Harry's shoulders sag in relief. Junior Aurors swarm the place, forcing the reporters to give way for the men clad in green robes: Healers from St. Mungo’s, lead by nobody else than Harry's husband.

Draco gives curt and sharp orders, snapping at an unfortunate photographer who didn’t get out of the way quick enough. Harry sees that his eyes are clouded in pain - that damn headaches again - but when he kneels down in front of Mila and softly murmurs to her, there is nothing but concern for her well-being there.

It takes some time, but she finally lets go of Harry’s hand and follows one of the other Healers. Immediately Draco is up again and talks to Milo.

Exhaustion is pulling Harry down into its abyss, now that everyone is safe and they’re back at the Ministry, and the weight of the boy is getting heavier with every passing minute. It was a horrible week and an even more horrible day and if he could just rest for a minute, that would be enough to pull through the next hours.

It comes as a total surprise when the boy is lifted from his arm and given to another of Draco’s colleagues. Harry blinks, having missed the last few minutes and he’s suddenly alone with Draco. He tries to sort his thoughts, to maybe say something, but nothing will come out of his exhausted mind.

He still blinks owlishly when he’s pulled forward, strong arms closing around him, unforgiving but infinitely gentle. Draco murmurs sweet nothings in his ear, stroking through his hair, oblivious to the grime and dirt.

And Harry lets himself go, just for a moment, when nothing can reach him inside the safe cocoon that are his husband’s arms.


	18. Playlist

Music never has been important in Draco’s life. His parents never allowed him time for such a useless hobby, and of course it was strictly forbidden to create any disturbance with something so common as the wireless.

At Hogwarts it was much of the same. Scheming Slytherins didn’t have much time to sit down and enjoy Celestina Warbeck, or whatever other nonsense was on.

Draco never felt like he missed out on something, that was, until he met Harry. 

Since Harry’s childhood hasn’t been a well of endless joy, he likes simple, sometimes childish things best, like watching the telly, riding a bike or visiting the zoo.

What’s more important is that it’s never quiet around their cottage. Harry needs the wireless like he needs air. It’s always emitting music, and it doesn’t even matter what programme they’re listening to. It can be Celestina Warbeck, who has become somewhat of a guilty pleasure for Draco (not that he would ever admit that without torture), or some of that confusing Muggle Hip Hop. 

It always annoyed Draco, the constant noise in the background of his life, but he couldn’t resent Harry’s passion when he only just learned to life after his own rules. It took some time, but eventually he got used to it, and even developed his own taste.

Now, years later, Draco can’t imagine not having music around him every day. He carries it with him, made possible by some clever Muggle device, and he even got the hang of downloading new songs from the Internet. He’s particular proud of this accomplishment. The Internet is virulent and dangerous for the imprudent mind, much more so for a person like Draco, who still fights with all the Muggle stuff most days.

One day Harry showed him how to create playlists - a series of songs that play in a specific order - and ever since Draco’s life has its own soundtrack. 

He has specific songs for specific situations at work. For stressful days he prefers the Weird Sisters; Myron Wagtails raspy voice has the unique ability to just “blow” the pressure away. 

When it gets emotional, Draco trusts in different Muggle singers like Dido or Katie Melua. He has a playlist for workouts, for parties, for dates with Harry and even one for particular naughty sex.

Lately he discovered the healing power music has. It helps keeping his patients calm, and some even show improved stats. The few children on the ward enjoy the audiobooks he brings them. They’re mostly Muggle fairy tales, but the Wizarding world caught up over the years and there are the stories of Beedle the Bard and Marvin Miggs, too. 

Sometimes, on very, very rare occasions Harry records his own voice, telling stories about that one time a young Wizard and his friends broke into a bank and stole a special cup and fled on the back of a dragon. Draco was scandalised at first, protesting that they couldn’t tell children what happened in the war, but with a little help, the nasty reality was morphed into an exciting tale that was suited as a good night story.

Draco would never tell anybody, but he listens to his husband’s voice so often, he can recite the stories in his dreams.

As he finally gets home from another draining shift, plagued by an equally draining headache, the wireless is already humming, slow and muted, in the den. It’s barely audible from where he stands, and he watches the heartwarming scene in front of him.

Harry lies on the sofa, sprawled over the cushions, deeply asleep. His glasses are askew and his Auror robes are on the floor, crumpled and forgotten. The song that plays hasn’t any lyrics and it doesn’t sound familiar to Draco, but it’s beautiful anyway. 

He slowly sinks down on the settee, the pressure falling from him as the music washes away the nastiness that is St. Mungo’s.

Minutes might pass, or hours, but it doesn’t matter to Draco as he relaxes for the first time today.


	19. Double Date

Harry fears the first Saturday every couple of months. He defeated Voldemort when he was seventeen, he chases dark wizards for a living and he lives with Draco, who can be a scary bastard if he intends to. Still he fears those dates more.

It hadn’t even been his fault Pansy’s hat caught fire the first time they met, that one was on Draco, but ever since he has to suffer the consequences. Which means Pansy will be a cold-hearted bitch and Blaise will make fun of him the whole time.

To their credit, they aren’t always like that. They had days when everything went fine, when conversation was easy, the food good and Harry felt just the same around them like he did with his other friends. But the situation is always fragile and a wrong word can set Pansy off on one of her rants that end with the accusation that Harry set the hat on fire in an act of revenge, because Pansy tried to give him to Voldemort. Which is ridiculous because if Harry wanted revenge, he wouldn’t destroy a perfectly good hat. And why had she worn the hat in the first place?

He suffers through those evenings, glad when they finally stayed long enough to alleviate Draco’s conscience, and gets home, emotionally exhausted and sometimes even physically injured. Alright, maybe he exaggerates a bit, but there had been one time, when Pansy had poked him with an actually hat needle (what is it with her obsession with hats) and he bled onto the white tablecloth. Needless to say Blaise made fun of him for that incident for the next three meetings. 

Today is an extraordinary stressful day at work and if Harry is honest, he doesn’t know when he last had a day that didn’t qualify as stressful. Probably any Sunday, but then they meet their friends, try to finish whatever chores are left from the week and, if there is still enough time, try to have sex at least once a month. Which happens less and less, since Draco is often plagued by headaches and Harry is just too tired.

He barely makes it out of the fireplace when he is assaulted by the intense smell of roasting meat and freshly chopped garlic. It’s odd, since they never eat at any of their houses. Pansy and Blaise meet them at the chosen restaurant, ten minutes after Draco and Harry arrive, since it’s fashionable to be always the last one to arrive. They have it down to an artform, and are always punctual on the second, and Harry suspects more than witchcraft behind it. Judging from the evil twinkle in Pansy’s eyes whenever he admits that they were exactly ten minutes late, not a second earlier or later, she seems to be in league with demons or the devil.

A deep rumble in his belly reminds Harry that he hasn’t eaten properly today, between a new case disrupting his Saturday morning and a long investigation in Cornwall there hadn’t been enough time for more than a hasty cup of tea. He winces when he hears a loud clang in the kitchen, the slight headache that accompanied him for most of the day suddenly getting stronger.

There are voices coming from the kitchen and it makes Harry instantly suspicious. There should only be one voice - and Draco isn’t prone to monologuing. He stops dead in his tracks when he reaches kitchen. 

Pansy is bustling around, wearing Draco’s “Kiss The Cook” apron, a wooden spoon in her hand, wielding it like a wand and barking orders at Blaise, who dutifully stands by the side and chops vegetables. It smells heavenly of strong spices and fresh ingredients, but Harry can’t help wondering where Draco is. They haven’t noticed him yet, so he clears his throat, trying to get their attention.

Pansy sees him first. “You look like shit”, she says in a charming and warm way that all Slytherins seem to have in common.

“What are you doing here?” Harry asks, still not sure if what he sees is actually happening.

“Cooking dinner, I’d say. Draco called to cancel our date, so we decided to make an exception this month, come by and cook dinner.” Pansy sets the spoon down to grab a glass of rich red wine, expertly inhaling the bouquet. It’s a good vintage, that much Harry can see, even if he still doesn’t understand anything about wine, much to everyone’s disappointment.

“That said, you don’t look too fresh either, so why don’t you lay down for a bit. It will be some time before dinner is ready.”  
Right on cue Blaise hurries him out of the kitchen and into the den, where Draco is fast asleep on the sofa, face contorted in pain, even in sleep. Harry picks up the blanket from the floor and drapes it back over his husband. He sinks down on the opposite settee, fully intending to watch Draco sleep, but his eyes grow heavy and before he knows it, Blaise is shaking his shoulder, announcing that dinner is ready.

It’s the strangest double date they ever had. Pansy is almost tame, shooting her poisonous barbs at those who really deserve it, namely impatient patients and crude criminals. Blaise recounts his day at the office, and serves them perfectly made spag bol, followed by chocolate lava cake. It’s perfect and Harry enjoys every minute, something he hasn’t thought possible after the hat incident.

Pansy must have seen something in his eyes, because she leans over, and tells him in a sickly-sweet voice: “Don’t get used to it, I haven’t forgotten what you did to my favourite hat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you know how hard it is working with my fiance? He messes with the words on purpose, because he thinks he's so funny (he is -.-). And then I have to correct it and it's soooo hard. 
> 
> Actually I'm very grateful he is such a good partner, taking an interest in my writing, even if he doesn't care for all that gay stuff :)


	20. Try Something New

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to my readers, but again it isn't my fault it took so long to update. We can always blame the fiance (since he isn't here to defend himself), because he took so long to look at the next chapter. To make it up to you, he finished four entire chapters that I will post right away for you. All remaining mistakes are also his fault, if you want to complain ;)

There is nothing worse for Draco than boredom. When he was a child everything that he might have enjoyed was quickly forbidden and he vividly remembers the hours he spent in his father’s study, getting lectured on proper behaviour for a Malfoy. Whenever he had time to do what he wanted - riding his training broom through the narrow halls of the Manor, playing hide and seek with the House Elves or simply reading a book that had a different topic than history - his father would soon put an end to it, dragging him off to the study for some ‘quality time’ between father and son.

He soon developed another way out, letting his fantasy run away to exotic places in far away countries. Of course he was always the hero in his stories, fighting evil Muggles and dangerous dragons, rescuing the prince or princess in distress, finding the lost treasure. It was so easy for his mind to slip away, to explore and just experience a freedom he could never have in the cage that was his sophisticated upbringing.

When he went to Hogwarts those fantasies slowly faded into the background. Draco had a House to rule, top grades to get and a certain boy to harass. It all demanded his full attention and there was very rarely the right occasion to visit his old playgrounds.

Then came the Dark Lord and with him terror Draco had never known before. In the endless hours, trapped inside the Manor, not even his mind was a safe place. But the only way for Draco to experience any kind of freedom, between endless bouts of torture and abuse, was to let his mind wander, to relive his childhood dreams.

The fantasies changed then. He wasn’t the brave adventurer anymore but the damsel in distress, rescued by a golden hero who had suspicious resemblance to a certain Boy-Who-Lived. He spent many hours dreaming of is rescue, barely holding it together in front of the Dark Lord or his mad aunt whenever they decided to have a stroll through his mind.

After the war another time in his life began, and while he didn’t need to hide inside his mind anymore, Draco liked to think about the worlds he created, the story that hid around every corner of his fantasy. 

It took him years to tell Harry about it, afraid he would be laughed at, or thought of as crazy.  
But Harry surprised him when he wanted to know everything about the many adventures Draco had experienced. He asked the right questions and even encouraged Draco to do it more often.

It went all well until one day Harry asked him, why he didn’t write his stories down. They were fantastic and he was sure Draco would be able to pull of an amazing story, since writing wasn’t that hard. But he couldn’t. It didn’t feel right to express his silly ideas, make them real on paper. It was nice of Harry to indulge him, to support this childish pipe dream. As soon as the suggestion was out there, Draco found all the reasons why it was a bad thing to try and write about his fantasies.

It’s a bleak evening, a thunderstorm wrecking the countryside and Harry is still out there, somewhere, arresting a bunch of baby Death Eaters who think it’s cool to slaughter a bunch of Muggle school kids. Draco feels incredibly lonely and his head kills him. The pain potions don’t work as well as they used to, and the thunder rivals the drumming in his skull. Worst of all is the boredom. He’s too tired to cook or do any other chores, and the bright lights of the telly make the headache worse. 

Buried under his favourite woollen blanket, his thought drift off to a sunnier place with palms and a soft breeze ruffling his hair. Fergus greets him, explaining that Princess Lillian misses her golden circlet and they need Draco’s help to retrieve it.

The deafening clap of thunder interrupts Draco quite suddenly, but he isn’t ready to let it go so fast. Suddenly everything is clear in his mind. With a flick of his wrist he summons some pergament and a self-inking quill. Despite the hammering in his head the words flow out of him, filling page after page as time flies by.


	21. Whisper Sweet Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really have trouble with some of the chapters. The nearer we get to the end, the more I anxious I get to finish. This chapter gave me a huge headache since I was struggleing with writing only a few words. But maybe sometimes things don't need much words, right?

There were many things that had been whispered in Harry’s ears over the years. Countless plans during their time at Hogwarts, confessing dreams during the long days while searching for Horcruxes and sharing fears in the furious days after the final Battle.

He can’t remember all the words, not even a handful of occasions, but he remembers probably the most important one.

They were lying in bed, exhausted after a day of intense play, sweaty and relaxed like never before. Draco was breathing heavily, having done most of the work, small rivulets of sweat running down his temple. He looked positively delicious and despite his bone deep satisfaction, Harry felt a faint stirring in his groin. How couldn’t he, with this naughty angel right beside him. He glanced at the endless legs, the concave belly, dusky nipples, the whole picture only slightly disturbed by a criss-cross of scars that he still couldn’t look at too long without feeling guilty.

Draco’s eyes were closed, his hair a mess, but Harry hadn’t seen anything more beautiful than his boyfriend lying next to him on a rainy Thursday afternoon. He gave Draco a last lingering look before he sank down, settling on Draco’s collarbone, pointy and slightly uncomfortable, but there wasn’t a place Harry would rather be. 

He was just drifting off when he heard Draco, softly whispering: “I love you.”

It was the first time he said it, but Harry will never forget it, and until this day it’s his Patronus memory.


	22. Gala

Usually Draco likes to dress up. It’s ingrained in the Malfoy blood, the need to present himself, the sense what to wear on what occasion, the impeccable manners that surely aren’t the result of hours and hours of a wasted childhood.

But he hates the galas the Ministry holds. They just want to show off their golden boy, their Saviour, and it doesn’t matter if Harry actually likes to be there. His presence is required, since he is not only the Boy-Who-Lived-Twice but also an invaluable asset to the DMLE. It’s bad enough that he has to hold endless speeches about things better left unsaid, ripping the barely healed wounds of the war open again and again. No, the worst thing is that: as Harry’s husband, Draco needs to attend every single one of them.

Okay, maybe he slightly exaggerated, since Harry has it worse than him, but deep down Draco is still a selfish bastard and he really hates those fancy-schmancy evenings when people look at Harry like he hung the moon and the stars (which he absolutely deserves) and look at Draco like he is the vilest creature that ever crawled out of the sewers (which he also deserves).

Decades after the war, years after he married Harry, the Ministry likes to remind Draco exactly what he did when he was a stupid and terrified teenager. He earned it, there is no question, but he knows it hurts Harry whenever his husband hears the snide comments and barely concealed insults and that’s why Draco hates going there. 

Nevertheless he has no choice in the matter, so he pulls his best robes from the closet, midnight blue with small silver stars, and goes through the motions he learned at the tender age of four. Brushing his teeth and his hair, taking a nail file to clean the ragged spikes he calls nails before applying clear nail varnish, making a mess out of things just like three decades ago. He gave up on immaculate beauty around the same time that the Dark Lord burned his Mark into his arm. He likes fashionable clothes and a nice cut, but that’s the end of it.

Spikes the size of a small Abraxan drum through his skull, but Draco knows he can’t bail on this. Despite Harry’s reluctance to go to those happenings, his husband is a dutiful clerk to the Ministry and wouldn’t miss a single minute.

It’s all worth in the end, when he sees the little twinkle in Harry’s eyes, the only sign that despite the endless questions and the fretful politicians. Draco knows his husband likes to do his duty and a successful gala is a job well done.

It’s even worth the barely veiled insults and surprisingly open threats.


	23. Memories

There are many memories Harry treasures and likes to relive. They're a part of him, made him who he is, and while some of them are painful, most of them are good.

Of course the war is seared to his brain. He will never forget that moment of stunned silence, right after the Patronus crashed Bill and Fleur's wedding and only a few breaths before panic made them run from the scene. 

He remembers many silent nights, when his only company were Hermione's tears.

He remembers dying on the mossy floor of the Forbidden Forest, surrounded by the vilest people that ever lived, in an act of love.

He remembers Narcissa Malfoy urgently whispering in his ear, while he lay on the damp forest floor, just coming back from the death.

Then there is a period in his life that he doesn’t remember at all. After the war, when he was suddenly drained, no adrenaline to fuel him anymore. Not battles to fight and nobody left to rescue. It was a bleak year after the war, full of tears, vastly shed and desperately hidden.  
How many nights had he been awake, the ghosts of all the lost his only company.

The day he met Draco again was the first day of spring, the first day the sky over London cleared up that year. The first day of the rest of his life, so to speak.

Although some memories are bad, the good ones outweigh them by far. It’s enough to fuel an army of Patroni. And it’s necessary doing the job he does.

The days in the force are long and vicious, blood, death and despair his companions with barely a ray of hope. But Harry has a rule and in his endless years as an Auror, he never strayed from it, no matter how horrible the day.

Every day, he takes ten minutes for himself. Draco knows this and even helps him find the time, if life gets too stressful. 

In those ten minutes, Harry closes his eyes. He lets his mind wander. 

To the third Christmas after the war. It was a quiet affair, even Celestina was pushed into the background. Still it was one of Harry’s best holidays. The sparkling eyes of Teddy reflected the fairy lights as his hair colour changed rapidly from red to green to blue to gold to silver and back again. He bounced happily on Draco’s lap, and Harry’s heart threatened to burst from all the love he felt at that moment.

Sometimes he thinks about mundane things like his first kiss - and he can look at it now from the distance of decades and smile at his teenage insecurities and shortcomings. 

Or the first time he fumbled his way through sex with some nameless guy in the broom closet at the Auror office. Glenn later dropped out of the training, deeply hurt that Harry hadn’t wanted a relationship but fast and uncomplicated sex, once he got a taste.

He thinks about the little things that make him happy. Waking up beside Draco late on Sunday morning, wrapped up in each other and content with the world. Sitting at the breakfast table, just the two of them. Working in the garden behind their cottage, his fingernails crusted with mud and a huge smile splitting his face.

It’s those memories that keep him sane when he’s faced with death and malice and all the nastiness that still won’t leave his life. And Harry wouldn’t have it any other way.


	24. Parenthood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Since everybody got some resolutions for 2020, I made some too, and while some of them include impossible things I somehow have to pull off, finishing this story was high on my list and even doable! The secret to success is simple: it was already finished, but not proof-read. I bothered the fiance for quite some time, but he just didn't do it, claiming 2 in the morning wasn't the best time to remind him of his obligations. Anyway, here are all the missing chapters. Please look at the end notes of chapter 30, where I will do some more explaining, seeing this was always meant to be the first part of a series.

Whenever ‘Uncle’ Draco keeps an eye on his nephews and nieces, he feels bittersweet happiness. The gleeful little faces and chubby hands, holding onto him so tightly he barely feels his fingers after a few minutes, remind him of he fact that he and Harry don’t have kids and most likely won’t have them.

They’re still young, barely fifty, which means they didn’t even finish a third of their lives yet. In fact their parents were that one crazy generation that got kids as soon as they finished school. Back then everything was so unsafe and people clung to each other, finding comfort from the terrors of the first war.

It isn’t unusual for wizards and witches to wait a few more years - decades - before procreating. It’s something they have to be sure about, and most people just want to live their life first before being responsible for a child.

Sometimes Draco feels the sharp pang of longing. Before everything happened - before the war, before his creature was awoken, back when he barely hit puberty, his mother had filled his head with a fairytale. She told him that one day soon he would marry a nice pure-blood girl, and they would have an heir. Then he would be Lord of Malfoy Manor, surrounded by his children until they grew old enough to have kids on their own.

While his creature is capable of bearing children, it’s highly unlikely he and Harry will ever have one of their own. Male pregnancies are an extremely rare thing amongst wizards. Everything has to be perfect. The partners have to have the same amount of magic, even the same frequency. They need to be of nearly the same age, same physical conditions, same medical history. 

Some decades ago they even tested it with twins, back when sick medical experiments were allowed and encouraged, and while they fit all criteria, they weren’t able to conceive, thank Merlin for that. It means that it’s more likely another Dark Lord rises, creates a horde of Horcruxes and claims immortality than finding a perfect pair.

It’s out of the question to find a surrogate, even if they never talked about it. Draco wouldn’t be able to allow some woman to carry his or Harry’s child. There’s just too much that can go wrong when involving another person.

So for now, all they have are the various nieces and nephews, godchildren and children of friends and all of them love their Uncles Harry and Draco. They invade the cottage sometimes, limiting the precious times they have off their jobs, but it’s just such a delight to see them play in the garden, chasing wayward gnomes and squirrels, building castles in the little sandbox, cooking gourmet cuisine with mud. It’s all very domestic and soothes the slight hurt in Draco’s soul when he remembers that none of them are his own.

Sometimes he struggles with his own barrenness, the Veela demanding to be useful. It doesn’t understand that procreation doesn’t work with good intentions and a strong will, and it’s unhappy, feeling neglected and robbed of its true purpose. Draco often has to fight the, somewhat, ridiculous demands the creature has. 

If he would give into his primal urges, he would barely be inside, his wings free and his mate always by his side. It’s almost worth it for the amount of time they would spend connected to each other, fucking like rabbits, only stopping to pop out one half-blood after the other. 

But this is the real world and Draco reigns the Veela in, aware that life can’t be all fluffy wings and ecstatic sex.  
And while the Veela still demands his attention from time to time, the hurt fades over the years, leaving him content, happily surrounded by his family.


	25. Sex in a Weird Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some chapters were reaaaaaaaaaaaaaaally hard to write, and others.... were not. This one came to me when I was at work, thinking what on Merlin's Earth I could write for this topic (and another chapter, maybe I'll remember which). Anyway, this is what came out of it ;)

Sex is an important part of their relationship. Harry fondly remembers the times when they couldn't be bothered to leave the bedroom, content to be wrapped up in each other. Over the years those days got less, naturally, but they still try to find some alone time every now and then.

The feeling of closeness, of love, of brain-melting pleasure can't compare to anything else in this world. No drug or alcohol can mimic the ecstasy of a mind-shattering orgasm. And that's just the normal days.

The kinky days are indescribable.

They both love to have sex in strange places. Their first 'special' sex had been fairly normal. It was at night on a park bench near Buckingham Palace. After the most intense orgasm of his life so far, Harry had confessed that the hottest thing hadn’t been Draco riding him to oblivion, but the fact that they could have been caught any time. The way Draco’s cock twitched at the notion was all Harry needed to confirm that they had the same fantasies.

After that they venture to unusual places quite often. They explore London, starting with the huge garden at Grimmauld Place, which is nice but not quite public enough, but the night is sticky warm as are their bodies and the shout with which Draco comes is loud enough to wake more than one straying neighborhood dog.

There once is a rooftop party in Kensington, and having sex around the homes of the Royal Family is a theme they follow for some time. After that it’s public buildings and Harry is overly proud of their wild night on the roof of Big Ben’s tower. Not that he could bragg about it: despite their mutual fondness of defiling each other in public, Draco is very closed off around their friends.

Over the years they explore more of the Muggle world. Paris, Venice, Rome, New York and one memorable night at the Forbidden City, and Harry will never admit out loud what they actually did there. There were quite a few things that were forbidden up until then, and they shattered a lot of inhibitions on top of the golden roofs.

For a few years they developed a taste for morally questionable places. But having sex in a graveyard was nothing compared to a quicky behind a tree at the Weasley Orchard, mere metres away from an enthusiastic Molly, picking apples, chatting to Arthur about another grandchild on the way.

After that they got reckless but, fortunately, never caught. Not even when Draco rimmed Harry at the Quidditch cup final between the Cannons and the Harpies that resulted in the first win ever for the Cannons. It was a huge success and whenever Ron talks about that day - Do you remember Harry, do you!? You were there, you lucky bastard! - Harry gets semi-hard in his pants. For years he wonders if he was actually the reason the Harpies lost, since he’s sure their Disillusionment Charm slipped for a second and Ginny stared at him wide eyed before a Bludger cleanly knocked her off her broom. Their best Chaser down the Harpies stood no chance.

Once they even got a spectator. Well, Harry is not certain, but the evidence speaks for itself.  
After a war memorial service, they stayed at Hogwarts, lingering on the Grounds, hidden by a series of Notice-Me-Nots and Muffliatos as Harry fucked every coherent thought out of Draco just behind Greenhouse 3. Clearly the Mandrakes were in the peak of their puberty because Harry could hear their excited chatter, some of them even cheering him on to go harder and faster. The isolated windows muffled their screams enough that they didn’t pass out, but their potent voices seemed to egg him on even more, making Harry weak in the knees and frantic with lust.

They stayed for dinner, too weak to Apparate just then, and as they walked the school, they stopped to chat with some of the portraits. While Snape only huffed in disgust at seeing them before he vanished and refused to come back, Dumbledore clapped his hands in delight, chuckling and winking at Harry. He’d never been so embarrassed in his life, and he still wonders how Dumbledore could even know what they did.

Over the years they got tamer, less reckless. They still try to have an active sex life, but with Draco’s headaches getting worse, they hardly get the chance to explore that particular kink. Still, vanilla sex is better than no sex, and given their explosive history, it’s always wild, sweaty and mind-blowing.


	26. Language of Flowers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of those chapters that were impossibly hard to write... like, how would two guys even use the language of flowers, even if one of them is a poncy git like Draco?
> 
> Also, I consulted three different websites for the language of flowers and they all had different meanings for the same type of flower, it was exhausting. So please, if you're well versed with colours and flowers and what it all means, don't be mad at me if they mean something different for you. I eventually settled for one page and that's what my flowers mean.

Draco still remembers all the lessons his mother drummed into him. Walking and standing, sitting and dancing, speaking and keeping quiet. Philosophy, astronomy, mathematics, rhetoric and poetry, but also astrology, proper manners, music and so many other things Draco didn’t care for nor ever needed in his life.

There’s only a handful of things he finds useful; how to dress properly, and appear to be aloof and confident, or how to walk and talk and move. But of all the useless things he learned and that are still seared into his brain, speaking the language of flowers is the most useful. 

He likes the way a selected bouquet can influence the outcome of a difficult meeting. When he first met the Weasley family after he became officially Harry’s boyfriend, he agonised over what to bring with him. He knew the Weasleys were still wary of him, and they had all the right to be, but he needed to make a good first impression as much as he could, what with tormenting their children for six years at school and being a war criminal and such. 

The magic of flowers is very subtle, but even those who don’t know about it understand it to a certain extent. Back then, Draco had crafted a beautiful bouquet of asters, bluebells, irises and purple hyacinths. It’d been hard to come by all the different plants since it was in the middle of a particular cold winter, but he managed just in time. The flowers spoke the words he couldn’t voice. They spoke of love, asked for forgiveness for his sins, begged for friendship, expressed his hope for a new beginning.

He still remembers Molly’s stunned expression, a tell-tale sign she knew how to read his present, but despite her short nod of acknowledgement, she hadn’t made it easy for Draco in the beginning.

It had been a complete surprise and broken his heart when, for his birthday, he received a letter from her. There seemed to be nothing inside, but when Draco upended the envelope, a single wilted flower fell on the table. Harry had been outraged at first, but Draco saw the dried, orange lily and began to cry.

It took an hour to regain his composure and explain the whole thing to his boyfriend. Orange lilies symbolise hatred and the withered flower clearly indicated that the former hate Molly Weasley felt for him, had slowly died, just like the lily. 

Working as a Healer, Draco has surrounded himself with flowers. His office looks like a tropical greenhouse: white-yellow plumeria and countless orchids, red poppies and white roses, all symbols of his work. Draco needs to surround himself in perfection and beauty, needs to remind himself of the sacrifices his job demands. 

He brings his patients pink and black tulips that help cheer them up, even if most of his young patients don’t know the meaning of it. Sometimes their parents bring him twigs of agrimony. He loves the subtlety of flowers. To most they’re just pretty, but to some they hold whole conversations.

On the desk of his overgrown office is a picture and it might be his most treasured one. To the unsuspecting eye it’s just a picture of their wedding; both grooms smiling brightly into the camera, proudly presenting their rings. The notable part of the picture aren’t the men, though. It’s the huge bouquet that Draco holds. It’s made up of primroses, bellflowers and anemones, quite unusual choices for a wedding, but the message they tell screams brightly in yellow, red and blue: eternal love.


	27. Bad Habits

There are bad habits and there are Bad Habits. Bad habits aren’t so bad and more likely adorable. Like when Draco rakes his hands through his mane whenever he’s nervous, destroying his perfectly coiffed hair. Harry finds it hilarious and endearing, and that wrecked look sometimes gets him hot and bothered. 

Or when he chews on his lips, sucking the lower one in between his teeth and then letting it go, again and again. It’s just a cute, adorable bad habit until he’s done it so often, so intense that the lip begins to bleed. Then it’s a Bad Habit. 

There are other things: the almost manic sarcasm, that badly hides Draco's self-deprecation. He likes to tell people he's their superior, better, stronger, more intelligent. More beautiful. He is, Harry knows, their family knows, their friends. The only one who doesn't know is Draco and he only tells people how much better he is to offend them, not because he means it. To himself, he always seems to be the stupid sixteen year old who did the wrong choices for the right reasons. He never progressed past the self-hatred.

It's a BAD HABIT Harry can't seem to break him from, no matter how hard he tries. Even years of promising that he is forgiven, that everything is well won't do anything. It's infuriating, really.

And, alright, maybe Harry has some Bad Habits too, he thinks as he sits on his hospital bed, a distressed nurse bandaging his badly burned arm in Murtlap-soaked gauze while his enraged husband prowl back and forth, left and right through his private room. They actually named the whole wing after him, the Harry-Potter-Magical-Emergencies-And-Maladies-Wing. 

Harry thinks it's a nice gesture, Draco always tells him spitefully that he 'donated' more than Lucius to St. Mungo's just by the fact that he's there almost twice a week. Because he's reckless, he can admit that. The years should have been quiet, with Voldemort gone and nobody to take up his slack. It seems the times of evil, megalomaniac Dark Lords are over, but despite that, Harry still gets injured on a regular basis. 

He knows it's because he's the Saviour and the Boy-Who-Lived-Too-Many-Times-To-Count, but also because of his own hubris. Just like Draco, Harry knows he's the best Auror, that most of the old stagers are either dead or finally retired and the new generation of Junior Aurors has grown up in a time when the last war is almost forgotten, only living in the stories of dinosaurs like him. 

And that's another Bad Habit of his, not trusting others can do the job as well as he can.

It’s an ongoing argument between them, those Bad Habits. Harry hates Draco’s, Draco hates his, and so they go in circles again and again.

It’s a sign of their deep devotion, of the love between them, that they still are together, dealing with their issues, and still are willing to put up with each other’s bullshit, knowing full well that despite the endless talks, nothing will change. Bad habits, small or with capital B and H, will always be a part of their relationship, but Harry and Draco have found a way to live with them. And love with them.


	28. Argument

The headaches are slowly killing him, and it’s on a sunny Thursday when Draco realises it can’t go on like this. He’s barely functional. He can’t keep his eyes open, because the lights hurt him fiercely, aside from the fact that he barely sleeps these days. His hands shake and most days he’s just glad he isn’t a Muggle doctor and doesn’t have to give shots on a regular basis or perform surgery. His mood swings from sleep-deprived high-as-a-kite to a deep depression in the span of minutes, leaving his co-workers offended and his patients confused.

Or so he thinks, because he can’t remember more than a few minutes. It’s a shame all of this isn’t even enough to convince him that things have to change, but a terrible argument with Harry is what finally does the trick. 

His mouth still tastes like crap, but at least the heaving subsided significantly. Draco drops on the couch in their den and snaps his fingers to make the room dark. His magic is unstable at the best of times ever since he has more pain filled days than not, and he’s surprised when the curtains close without causing an incident. He has no idea what time it is, other than it’s day. Did he just get off his shift at St. Mungo’s? Or is he due in a few minutes? It’s all fuzzy in his head, laced with the thorns of agony.

He nearly gets sick again when a door is thrown open and it crashes against a wall. The pain is consuming his thoughts, so Draco is surprised when Harry is suddenly in front of him, talking and gesturing furiously. The words don’t reach his addled brain immediately, but when he finally can make sense of them, he gets sick again.

Without a word he rushes to the bathroom, throwing himself down to hug cool porcelain, but all that happens is dry heaving and bad cramps in his stomach. At least the room is dark.

“Enough already, Draco! I know you Healers are stubborn and downright stupid, but I can’t stand and watch you destroy yourself over your stupid pride. I’ve had enough. I never thought I’d say these words, but I want you to listen to me and listen good. Either you seek help and allow me to actually be there for you, or you’re on your own. Do you know what it does to me when I have to watch you waste away? I barely recognise you anymore and we’re married for decades. Decades, Draco. And you just throw it away, being like this.”

The words are harsh, hurtful. If he had the strength to flinch, he would have done so, but as it is, Draco can only watch his husband running down the hallway. It’s been so long, he doesn’t even remember when he’d seen Harry this angry. Maybe never. But he stays silent, doesn’t know what to say when faced with those accusations. Those threats.

It takes some time before the words really hit him. Before he realises that Harry has had enough. That he wants to leave. Not because Draco is sick, but because he won’t let anybody help.  
They once swore to care for each other in health and sickness, but Draco recognises it now. Harry cared, so much, but Draco didn’t. He wallowed in his pain, in his desperation, hurting himself and his husband in the process.

Enough is enough.

He needs to start and take charge of himself again. Healing starts with wanting to get better, he tells his own patients so often, most of the long-term residents of the ward fling them back at him with a smirk.

It’s time to change what’s been going on for months now. Time to stop hurting his family, his friends.

Draco crawls to the fireplace, too weak to stand properly and summons the Floo powder, silently thanking Merlin for not spilling it or accidentally setting the den on fire.

By the time an owl taps on his window, carrying a small note from Harry that he’s staying at Ron’s for a few days, Draco has spoken to Healer Merrygold and is currently pumped full of potions. Merrygold whirls around the room, casting diagnostic spells in between harsh lectures on common sense, awful Healers and cantankerous colleagues.

It only takes a short reply by owl and twenty minutes for Harry to rush to Draco’s side.


	29. Temptation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is like the nastiest chapter ever. I've started it a few times, because I wasn't going anywhere and then I even resorted to asking Wikipedia what TF 'Temptation' actually is. It helped a bit and this came out of it. I'm not satisfied, but maybe you are.

Harry was tempted many times in his life, mainly to use blunt objects on stubborn people. He remembers some of those times fondly, like when Ron drove him mad in the dorms with his snoring, or that one memorable time when even Hermione had been bothered by her own voice and willingly shut up, even before Harry could give her one of his not-so-subtle looks.

When he was fresh out of school, he’d been tempted to just leave it all behind and start a new life somewhere people didn’t know about Harry Potter and how he saved Britain from the maddest Wizard of all times.

He’d been in a relationship once that was so point- and loveless, that he was tempted to cheat on said poor sod, and even if he didn’t do it, he came close to do so.

Temptation is something that is always present in his life, ranging from staying at home and let the Ministry fend for their own, from going out and burning down the Prophet headquarters.

And, despite being together for Merlin-knows-how-long, the Veela still drives him mad with want and desire. Although Harry thinks he must be immune to its allure by now, he still catches himself doing questionable things trying to get its attention.

He knows it's normal, even for Veela mates, and he and Bill are in some kind of challenge who the bigger dork is when the allure gets too strong and they do stupid stuff.

And how can he not, when his husband is the epitome of sex, with his slender built, his soft alabaster skin, his perfect lips that can snarl and smile and suck? With his hands that look so delicate, yet are so strong that they can lift him up and move him around (all within the reasonable time of three seconds, but still)?

And those are only the visible features. The real treasures are the things Draco usually keeps hidden. Thus began a game between them, almost two decades ago: the Veela would send out subtle signals for Harry to pick up, promising him delightful hours, depending on the kind of thing he did to finally get its attention. 

On one absolutely orgiastic weekend, Harry did not only finish his first triathlon, but also found out that men were capable of multiple orgasms - but only after coming so many times that his dick was ready to quit on him forever. Seeing the Veela in all its glory, uninhibited and free, the huge, white wings wrapping him in a cocoon of warmth had been worth the months of tireless training and the soreness that slowly seeped into his joints.

It’s a tricky matter, tempting Draco to let go of his unyielding control over the creature. While the Veela is an inseparable part of him, he hates giving up his body. They never talk about why that is, but Harry knows it had been Voldemort who woke the Veela, and had even witnessed some of the things that had been done to Draco while being inside Voldemort’s head.

While Draco and the Veela are one, they are separate beings too. It’s hard to explain. They belong together, but they don’t. They share the same body, the same thoughts, the same mannerism, but they don’t. Sometimes when Harry looks into his husband’s eyes, he can see the creature stare back beneath the mesmerising grey. In the beginning it freaked him out, just a little bit, but now he’s as familiar with Draco as he’s with himself.

Harry doesn’t know how exactly it works, or what happens inside Draco’s mind, but he knows the Veela can break through the tight leash Draco has on it and although he could always reign it back in, he sometimes lets it out to play.

Harry tries to be a temptation on his own. He knows Veelas not only like a good show of their mate’s qualities, but they like to watch and to be wooed in every possible way. It’s almost the same with a human partner, but still a bit different.

When he wants for Draco to take notice of him, Harry knows exactly how to get his attention. He just needs to dress nice, maybe arrange for a candle light dinner or a nice walk on the beach.  
Veela-Draco needs to be handled more subtle; Harry needs to build the anticipation carefully so Draco decides willingly to let his creature out to play.

Most of the time Harry starts with heated gazes, but always when Draco is slightly distracted. His subconscious will see them, but he won’t be tempted to act on the promise of hot sex that Harry gives him. It’s not for him, anyway, but for the creature that always watches its mate.

Next come specific touches and small gestures, that don’t mean much to Draco, but Harry knows the Veela registers them, waits for them with building anticipation.

It’s when he sees the creature more often looking back at him that he knows it’s waiting for his bold declaration of devotion and strength. Whatever it is the next time. 

For now, Harry has planned to climb the Kilimanjaro. Draco was surprised by his plans, stating that it was equally impressing and stupid to go mountain climbing when one hadn’t ever done something like this before. Harry knows, but he sees the promise of the Veela whenever he comes home from his tiring training sessions and he knows the sex will be worth the effort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The internet says the Kilimanjaro is one of the easiest mountains to climb. It seems reasonable that Harry would try his hand on it, even if the whole thing of actually climbing a mountain just to have sex is unreasonable af.


	30. Forgiveness

On some days it’s incredibly hard. Sometimes Draco has to fight to keep it together for hours on end; when the pressure of society is crushing his spirit and making it almost impossible to do his job. A Healer needs to be strong for their patients, unwavering and willing to endure. He’s all that and more, but some days it all seems futile. When his every step is met with hatred and contempt, when doors are slammed in his face, sometimes quite literally.

Draco knows it’s still a long way before he’s forgiven and he thinks some people never will. His name is ruined, not that he cares much for it, but it still causes some of his patients and visitors to frown at him and demand a different Healer to treat them or their relatives. He can understand their reservations, but it’s still frustrating, and some days it outright hurts him down to the core.

Like today. Draco is the only Healer experienced enough to treat the little girl that came onto the ward this morning. Her parents have taken care of her for a long time, but her condition unexpectedly turned worse and now her life is on knife’s edge. Nobody seems to know what spell hit her and reversing such a thing is almost impossible, but the parents were willing to try as soon as they realised their daughter would likely die without proper care.

However, they refuse to let Draco help and no matter how hard he fought to make them see reason, they wouldn’t allow him anywhere near the girl. St. Mungo’s has his back, but they’re also powerless when faced with determined parents and stubborn patients. He tried to help Healer Neill from afar, but they both know it won’t do any good as long as Draco isn’t allowed to see the girl for himself.

It’s already weighing heavy on his conscience, and he knows it’s his fault, and only his, that that little girl will likely die before the week is over. If he hadn’t been so stupid as a teenager, hadn’t followed his father like a good, mindless crup, he wouldn’t be tainted by the crimes he was forced to commit during the war. Maybe he’d have even fought on the right side and people would now look up to him, like they look up at Harry.

It’s hard to have the Saviour of the Wizarding World as your husband, when you yourself are a low-life Death Eater with a Dark Mark to show. To this day there are still speculations if their marriage is just part of an elaborate scheme and that, maybe, he controls Harry’s mind with the Imperius Curse, nevermind that they’re married for decades and not even the Dark Lord could cast a spell strong enough to hold a single person for this long. Certainly Draco couldn’t. He’s good with any kind of spell, strong and able, but he could never muster enough meaning to make his Cruciatus Curse work, and he certainly was too weak-minded to control somebody.

Despite the Prophet and the people at the hospital, those who matter have long since forgiven him for what he did or didn’t do. He talked to Harry, naturally, and they both apologised for being stupid, pigheaded gits. They both forgave themselves for what they did to each other. For Sectumsempra and stomping on noses. For snitching on Hagrid’s dragon and enjoying forced transfigurations into animals, and many more.

Harry basically forgave everything, the huge and awful things as well as the small ones.

However, there are still things Draco can’t forgive himself. Letting Death Eaters into Hogwarts. Getting Dumbledore killed. Watching the Dark Lord murder people without raising a finger. Watching Bellatrix torture Hermione. He shudders when he thinks about each and every mistake he did during the war. Sometimes he wakes in the middle of the night, the screams of countless victims in his ears.

It’s not like he doesn’t want to get over it, but he can’t. All this blood still stains his hands and Draco doesn’t think he can ever wash it away. Harry tries to assure him that he paid his dues, that the way he helps people now makes up for his mistakes. That he was just a child and couldn’t have done anything to prevent what happened.

As he sinks onto the sofa now, emotionally exhausted by the day and the knowledge that he could have helped if people would have let him, Draco closes his eyes. His head pounds from a headache, but it isn’t the debilitating pain he experienced months before, but a mere inconvenience and a sure sign for stress.

He knows he should let go, should forgive himself at least a little bit. But it’s hard, knowing that his actions decades ago cause a little girl’s death today.  
As he closes his eyes, letting his mind slip into the oblivion of sleep, he thinks about Harry and that their love helped him deal with so many obstacles before. He dreams about Harry’s sweet smile, his insightful knowledge how Draco’s mind works and all the small and big ways how he helped healing the wounds of the war by simply being there and listening when Draco needed it.

His dreams are full of love, and maybe he is finally ready to go another important step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter of this work. It was meant to be a writing exercise, you know, writing every day about 100 to 1000 words. I thought it was a good idea because I tend to overthink things alot and wanted to make myself just go with the flow, just write away. It's why I don't have this beta read, but merely proof-read by my fiance, and was going lightly on the editing afterwards. It's basically still a raw draft, but it's okay for me and I think some of you enjoyed it.
> 
> Now I wanted to use this work to introduce it to a longer universe with Veela!Draco and Auror!Harry. If you're still interested, you should read the secret chapter 31. I wanted to include it in this chapter, but the finace was heavily protesting, stating he found that idea stupid and dumb and he was enraged beyond measure I would use such a 'cheap trick' on my readers.  
> Alas, if you want to leave it like this, this work stands alone and can be seen as 30 chapters of domestic fluff and a bit of angst that was even resolved. Or you can follow me and we'll explore what I have planned, even if I have to admit it is a bit of a cheap turn of events. ;)


	31. Bridge: Descent into Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you ready? Read on your own risk, and please keep in mind that it's merely a bridge to the actual sequel that is going to come soon. I can't make promises when that'll be, but I made it my resolution to write more and I'll try to keep it ;)

Pain spikes through Draco’s skull, an agony he has never known before. It feels like his brain is simultaneously pierced by an ice pick and ripped apart by harsh claws, while somebody uses a blunt knife to dissect it.

He tries to scream, but his throat is locked up, his body paralysed and his nerve endings fried by the unimaginable torture.

He opens his eyes when he feels something break in his mind, causing even more pain. His body begs him to pass out, but a painless oblivion isn’t meant for Draco. Instead he looks up to find cold, crimson eyes and a malicious, but very satisfied smile.

“Welcome back, Little Dragon,” a voice says, and despite the words, it’s cold and lifeless.

Somewhere a woman cries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I'm interested in a long term beta reader, if one of you is interested. ;) Until the next time!


End file.
